


A Matter of Destiny

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-21
Updated: 2007-12-21
Packaged: 2019-01-19 18:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12415557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: Rain is never a good sign. It brings him nothing.// Five things Tom Marvolo Riddle never had.





	A Matter of Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

note: this was written for kali, from a meme at lj; the prompt was originally "five things that never happened," but it turned out a little bit differently, so here you are.

a matter of **destiny**

_(or, five things that tom marvolo riddle never had)  
_

**i.** _family_

“No one’s coming for you, Tom.”

He looks over his shoulder in irritation. “Of course he is.” 

Eric Whalley steps forward, dips into Tom’s line of vision. “He’s _not_ , I said. No one ever comes for anyone. Not for the other kids, not for me, and not for you.” 

Tom turns his head slowly and fixes Eric with a glare. The other boy sees something in his eyes and instantly recoils, taking a few quick steps backwards and muttering under his breath about _unnatural_ and _possessed_. 

As he leaves the room, he calls back. “Watch out that window all you want, Tom, _no one_ is coming for you. They’d have to be mad to want you. Mad like _you_.”

Tom doesn’t look at him; instead, he continues to look into the pouring rain that obscures the night sky. “Mad like me,” he says to himself with a smile, and waits for his father to appear. 

Years later, he is still waiting. Eventually, though, he will give up hope, and that is when things begin to go bad.

**ii.** _recognition_

September 1st, 1938, is a day of shadows and gloom, and Tom stares at the sky, scattered with clouds as it is. Rain is never a good sign. It brings him nothing. 

He steps onto the train alone, having been brought to London by Mrs. Cole. His things are already stashed away, and he walks down the corridor, searching out an empty compartment.

There are none to be found. 

He has no choice but to slip into a compartment near the end of the train, which already has a boy and a girl sitting together on the leather seat. They are animatedly discussing some kind of sport, though what it is, Tom can’t make out. He clears his throat, and both of them look up bemusedly. He stands a little straighter – this, finally, will be the day when he is recognized by his own kind for his greatness.

“My name is Tom Riddle,” he says importantly. 

The boy looks at him for a few seconds. “I’m John Malkin,” he answers finally, “and this is Susan.” Tom waits for them to say something more, but they look at each other, uninterested and clearly at a loss for words. With a shrug, John picks up where they left off, saying something about ‘Kwiditch’ and broomsticks. 

They ignore Tom completely, who seethes in silent rage. He leaves to find another compartment; this time, one containing people who will see him for what he is immediately. 

There are none to be found. 

**iii.** _appeal_

His hair is slicked, his shirt is pressed, and a spritz of cologne has been added for good measure. The young Voldemort smiles, filled with confidence. _(Tom Riddle, on the other hand, is nervous, but that part of him is tucked away so obscurely that it makes no difference.)_

Walking down the corridor, he spots the Head Girl. Right on schedule; he knew the seventh years would be leaving Defence Against the Dark Arts just about this time. Easily, he falls into step beside her. She is a year older, but he is a good four inches taller, and his long legs keep him even with her brisk stride. 

This will be simple, he decides. Who could refuse the charismatic Voldemort? Even the most desirable woman in Hogwarts cannot, and this he knows without a doubt.

“Good afternoon, Minerva,” he says smoothly. She nods at him, with the barest hint of a smile, and keeps walking briskly down the corridor, her shoes clicking on the stone. The slightest frown wrinkles Tom’s flawless face at her lack of response. 

No matter.

“I was wondering if you would join me in Hogsmeade, weekend after next?” he continues in a rich voice. “The weather promises to be much nicer than this rain we’ve been having, and I thought your company would be pleasant.” He fixes her with a charming grin and waits for her response. 

“No,” she says, shortly but calmly, and keeps walking, looking straight forward.

He matches her pace. “What do you mean, no?” he demands, his frown deepening. 

“No, I will not go to Hogsmeade with you,” she repeats, stopping and turning to face him. “You think I don’t hear what’s whispered in the halls about you? I know where you stand in the war, and what you think about Grindelwald’s ideals. What I don’t know is what could possibly possess you to think that a half-blood witch would spend any more time than necessary in the presence of a blood-obsessed fool.”

He shakes his head, temples pounding. “No one says no to Lord Voldemort.” 

Her eyes narrow at the use of his nickname – for she has heard it as well, filtering back from the Slytherins throughout the school along with his pureblood supremacy, and the two are firmly linked. “I didn’t,” she says, lifting her chin. “I said no to Tom Riddle.”

And she walks off down to corridor, leaving him to clench his fists in anger.

**iv.** _control_

The Head Boy will surely be in trouble if he is caught sneaking off the school grounds, but he is not afraid. Besides, he is not the only student who has left Hogwarts this night, and if questioned, he can always say that he was in pursuit.

He catches up to her easily, just beyond the village of Hogsmeade. Her eyes widen as she recognizes him, but he already has her, slammed against a tree with his hand around her throat and his wand pointed between her eyes. Water comes down in torrents and drenches them both, plastering her hair to her terrified face. 

“Having a good evening, are we, Susan?” 

She whimpers in reply, scrabbling at his hand with both of hers, and he only laughs. The sound is chilling; humorless, and sinister, and cruel. 

“Thought you would get away, did you? No one escapes from Voldemort. I am greater than you know, Susan. It was not wise to speak poorly of me, for most have learned by now what respect I deserve… though I’m sure you’ve realized this by now. You, on the other hand, have yet to learn your place. Filthy Mudblood slag.”

Struggling, she meets his eyes, and he glares coldly at her. He will teach this one to respect him like the others – and she _will_ respect him. Faced with a choice between harm and humility, any logical person will choose the latter. 

“Ask forgiveness, Susan, for your ignorance. Ask, and I will grant it. If you watch your step from this day forth, no further harm will come to you; none can say that I am not mercifully—”

Clawing at his face with her long nails, she manages to knock away his hands and run for it, but the ground is muddy from the rain and she falls before she has taken three steps. He laughs, and sends a curse at her, and she cries out in pain. 

Mercy will not be an option. It is a pity that a Mudblood has learned to rebel, but it will not happen again.

“Your kind will learn their place before long, Malkin. You, unfortunately will not have the chance.” 

Looking back at him, her eyes widen in horror as he nonchalantly twirls his wand in his fingers before committing his first murder.

It is, in a way, the beginning of the end.

**v.** _victory_

He stands outside the castle, at the edge of the grounds, looking back at the lone light that shines out of the window. It is in the office that he has just left, and for neither the first nor the last time that night, he curses the name of Albus Dumbledore. 

Once, he thought no one could refuse him, that Lord Voldemort had power – not over petty things like dates, for he had let go of such childish things, but when it truly mattered. It was not a half hour earlier that he had been proven wrong. Now, he grinds his teeth, holding in his wrath.

In that moment, he swears an oath to himself. Power will come to him, and then there truly will not be a single soul who can deny him anything. He will return to Hogwarts, and he will get his revenge. Best of all, he would come out on top of the Headmaster, proving he was superior to the old fool. 

Lord Voldemort turns and walks out, away from Hogwarts and into the world. Overhead, there is a flash of lightening, and rain pours from the pitch-black skies.


End file.
